At My Shoulders
by LuvEwan
Summary: Through a thick veil of mourning, Qui-Gon glimpses daybreak. Complete.


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At My Shoulders

By LuvEwan

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Summary: Through a thick veil of mourning, Qui-Gon glimpses daybreak.

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Not mine.

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Chimes lace a silver harmony through the air, mingling with the sultry, burnished dusk and a faint applause…the kind that erupts not in a burst, but a shimmer that encompasses and rains down on the celebration. Steel rises amid the delicate white and silk banners, silently reminding the guests what lies beyond their small cluster of sentimental toasts and sprigs of ivy: Coruscant will never be a quaint, picturesque setting. 

But it doesn't matter. Two souls are being bound this evening, in gold and in words, in the sacred pledge that can seem as though it has been purged from the furthest, most intimate corners of your heart.

The wedding party is cheering--but through their joy seeps a cacophony, of stolen promises and sudden severance, wailing sharp in my mind. I envision their smiles and twinkling eyes, the flush of potential in this new dawning of life, a life interwoven with another. 

They will hold hands, brush lips, spend hours engaged in sweet, silly talk of nothing at all, sleep with the reassuring sounds of soft inhales and exhales, and wake to…

Loneliness. 

Every morning.

That is, if they manage to sleep at all. 

For even as they head for their decorated transport, night is saturating the beauty of the sky, crawling up the horizon. 

I should feel something for them, this young couple beginning their journey together. After all, not every love ends in premature ash. 

But I cannot help the dismal affinity I have with a detached onlooker, a man standing in the distance, cloaked in his void, clutching to it to shield against the breeze whirled by the betrothed lovers. The tip of his foot emerged slightly from the shadow, so that his numbness is not complete, so that he can at least wish them happiness.

And despite the absence of movement in my chest, I find myself wondering over the design of their faces, this bride and her groom--

A single set of features drifts into my mind. Jade eyes with molten stripes, striking, pinning you in place with their lovely, penetrating stare. Honeyed skin and a full, gleaming mouth. 

She…She won't smile again.

I know I am no different. The evil that robbed her of her vivacity, her strong, incredible aura, claimed two victims…I have shared her fate in every way--except I wander in flesh, while she, I pray, flourishes in the Force.

The ceremony is finished; bands of people head for their vehicles, walking through a pristine bed of petals. 

I slowly turn from the window. The first yellowed waves of moonlight touch my back as I walk. It will be another long night.

How many nights, now?

Perhaps it has been but one, stretching out into endless, dark eternity, because I can't remember morning. Morning, when the page is turned and old pain can be cured by warm rays. 

In any case, it has been a night without stars. More a dark canopy, blank as my heart.

The kitchen is lit by low amber light when I pass. I wave my hand and black envelopes the room. 

I start towards my bedroom, then pause. There's a short clatter against the counter. My brow raises, but my hand does not yet stray to my belt, where my saber waits at ready. "Obi-Wan?"

A small, startled gasp.

Frowning, I switch the light back on. 

He's standing on the tile in his stocking feet, dressed plainly in sleep clothes and robe. 

"Master…" He tries to smooth out the rumpled nightshirt, as if he were addressing a dignitary in uniform rather than his Master in pajamas. "I know it's late--"

I glance out the window. Unadulterated black, which means the final neon signs have winked out from the businesses that cater to the after-hours crowd. 

I must have lingered in my musings longer than I imagined. 

"I'm sorry I disturbed you." Obi-Wan's voice is characteristically understated, and his gaze fails to level with mine. 

"No, it's alright…" It abruptly strikes me that I have not spoken to the boy, outside of empty instruction or greeting, for days. 

I'm in no mood to now. He has become a remnant of my former existence, a person who remembers me for my wisdom and guidance…and has lingered through my death, while those qualities have not. With his imploring looks and shy smiles, he demands breath of a ghost. He wants much more than I can possibly give, so it's better that we have this span between us. 

Sometimes, I don't notice when he leaves, until he comes quietly through the door and quickly passes by me. 

I _want _to reach out, to stop him, to try and explain. 

But then arrives the ache, rushing in in its great, drowning tide. I am pulled off shore again, under the murky waters of rotten green that was once the jeweled tone of her eyes…and he is alien to me 

I study his face: the eyes, the compressed lips and dimpled chin…and I detect that something is amiss. 

Red splotches color his cheeks, and appear to have drained the multihued cast of those eyes. 

"What were you doing out here at this hour?"

Another youth of his age would have shifted their weight from one foot to another, or ran a hand through their hair. 

Obi-Wan doesn't move, and his tone does not waver from its mildness. "I was just hungry."

He strives to sound nonchalant, but there's a tinge of uneasiness present in the Force that believes his attempt.

He's lying to me.

For the first time I months, I register an emotion besides grief or anger.

Sadness. A sweeping sadness that nearly swallows me whole. 

Obi-Wan _never _forsakes the truth. Never.

But he has for me. 

A newer pain constricts my lungs. "Come here." I beckon him with an open palm.

He obeys, stopping a few feet from me. 

I'm on the verge of choking. I have not allowed myself to look at him, truly look at him, and now that I must, I see that he has changed. There has been a subtle surfacing of manhood in Obi-Wan's face…yet it is almost eclipsed by the unnatural scarlet. 

I lay my hand against his forehead.

He shivers slightly, and I pull back, hoping the chill is not from my touch. 

"Go sit on the couch."

A nod, a brief flicker of lashes, and he disappears into the living area.

Meanwhile, I am halted in my steps. _He's burning up._

There's a blink from my sealed mind's eye. I know I must pull myself from the muddle of interior ether, to do what is required to lower the fever and alleviate the illness. His health is in question, and that is a problem that cannot be ignored, even by someone whose spirit has flown from their body.

It's akin to removing a blindfold after a long, ambling trek:…I'm in dunes, sand untouched save by my footprints, and I must find home, normalcy, the state of calm rationality that will bring us through. 

Obi-Wan needs help.

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No. 

Obi-Wan needs _me. _

I go to the kitchen and dampen a cloth. While I ring out the cool water, I glance over at him. I want to feel the same as before. I want to talk to him and hear peals of his pure laughter.

She loved to make him laugh.

I swallow hard and enter the other room. 

Obi-Wan straightens.

I have to clear my throat. _Gods. This isn't a stranger! _"How long have you been sick?" I ask him, without disapproval.

"Not long." He shrugs beneath the heavy cloak. His fingers are curled around the sleeves.

I sit a cushion away from him. "And how long would _that _be?"

"Three or…four days." He admits as though ashamed. "I-I'm alright."

I sigh. "That's certainly up for debate." I motion for him to lay out, and he does so, stiffly. 

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When did he become so nervous around me? 

"Here." I fold the cloth and rest it across his hot forehead. A droplet rolls down his cheek. 

I watch it descend, then return my focus to his paled eyes. "You'll be alright." I aim to soothe, combating the numbness that has encased me. "I ran a check, and it isn't anything serious. 

"But nevertheless, you should have told me you were ill. Hiding such a thing can be dangerous."

Obi-Wan nods. "I apologize, Master."

I shake my head. It feels a bit light. "Don't apologize. I should have detected any shift in your wellbeing." I wipe the bead of moisture from his fevered skin. "I should have known you were keeping something from me."

Tentatively, I touch his jaw…I expect to recoil from the warmth, as I have since I was plunged into the cold…but my fingers trace the line instead, leading up to his hair. I comb through the soft, auburn spikes-locks, growing out of their standard Padawan length. "I think a visit to the barber is in order."

Normally he would have offered some sort of dry remark (likely regarding my own hair) but tonight he is silent, head tilted against the couch.

In the dim, midnight ambiance, his skin is sallow, and a terrible thought will not leave me. What if this malady is not the sole culprit of his pallid face and lusterless eyes? 

Have _I _brought him here, to this bundled misery and isolation?

His cloak is not as mine. He cannot be wrapped in a personal oblivion as easily as he is wrapped in fabric. I have been locked in a deadened mind these months, but Obi-Wan cannot separate himself so easily from emotion.

His heart is still exposed to the wear and cruelty of the Universe.

He saw her, wasted to an apparition of her past self.

And he saw me, consumed by the flames of rage, blinded to everything.

Blinded to him. 

Since then, he might have searched for his Master.

No longer.

There isn't a trace of hope in his eyes, trained to a spot on the couch, heavy-lidded and uninspired. 

I should break this silence. There was a time in our relationship when the compulsive need to speak was nonexistent--for even with our mouths closed, and backs turned, we could hear one another's thoughts as clearly as if they were our own. 

Morning is distant from us after the recent ordeals, and the connection of our minds is rife with dust. 

"Master, I'll be alright. There's no reason you should lose sleep as well."

He pulls me from my downcast reverie, and I almost laugh. _When did you become an old man, little one? You're much too young to be so sensible. _

I think the urge to laugh stems from my fear of absorbing all that has happened. Laughing is far better than the alternative.

"There seems to be quite an important reason. This fever won't break on its own."

He struggles to sit up, and the cloth falls from his face. "I'll just take a pill. I already had them out and--"

Very gently, I push his chest until he is reclined on the sofa again. "That isn't necessary." My voice seems to have lowered of its own accord, scantly above a whisper. I substitute the missing cloth with my flattened hand. "You should know, my foolish, young Padawan, that sometimes the most effective cure cannot be found in a medicine bottle."

I tuck the robe tighter around him and lay my forearm over his. He _does _look at me directly now, questioning--unbelieving.

I gather the healing graces of the Force around me, infusing them with my own energies as I pour them into my apprentice. I murmur a few words into his mind.

He doesn't react. No reply through our bond, not even a twitch of his lip to indicate he has heard. 

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He heard…and he'll understand. When he's ready.

For now, he says nothing but a feeble 'thank you'.

I smile. It feels foreign to me, like fitting into something that has shrunk to a painful size since it was last worn. 

It is familiar--but vastly different.

Which is not to say it is unwelcome. 

"Try to go to sleep." I murmur.

He is shaking slightly under his cloak and pajamas.

So am I.

I grab the quilt from the arch of the sofa and settle it around his neck, then replace my hand on his forehead. 

He looks to be both a child and a man, huddled in blankets and threatened with sleep by my ministrations, a few reddish whiskers sprouting on his chin and an eternity of heartache stored in his soul. 

For this period of mourning, my life since her demise, I have held to the thought that the Universe holds no good for me, without the joy of Tahl at my side.

But I have another shoulder, at which my Padawan stood.

I have been looking the other way, at the empty horizon with its encroaching darkness, while he waits in the light. 

I have not woke to the sun because I have grasped to midnight.

My fingers trail the outline of Obi-Wan's face long after he has dozed, and the relieving bullets of sweat have created a sheen over his skin. 

They do not stray from him until after morning has wrestled control from its counterpart, and dawn blossoms across the sky, in shades of rose and violet, bleeding together and ushering in another day. 

A day during which, maybe, he will accept the words that flitted through his mind.

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'I'm sorry.' 

And if not today, there will be a tomorrow.

I cannot know for sure…but, finally, that is my wish. 


End file.
